Page 259 of His To Erase
He lets out a quiet laugh, and it’s somehow worse than a scream. My grip tightens around the fork as he leans back in his chair, like he’s settling in to relive his favorite story.
“I had to make it believable,” he says. “It was the best I could come up with, in the time I had. Blood and just enough groaning to sound pitiful. The timing had to be perfect.”
I blink. Once. Hard. “You... what?”
He just smiles, tilting his head. I wait for him to say more, to correct himself, to tell me I misheard.
My stomach drops. “You—” My voice falters. “You stabbed yourself?”
His smile sharpens, but he still doesn’t answer. Silence stretches so long it turns into dread.
“You stabbed yourself,” I repeat, quieter this time—more to myself than him. Like if I say it enough, it’ll start making sense.
“I had to get your attention somehow.” He shrugs. “Nothing vital obviously. It was shallow enough to bleed, but deep enough to sell it. And your bleeding heart fucking fell for it.”
He grins like I’m supposed to be impressed.
“You knelt down,” he adds, voice turning soft and mocking all at once. “Touched me. Whispered,‘It’s okay, I’ve got you.’You looked so scared, and so sweet.”
My stomach flips so violently it’s like my body’s rejecting the entire scene. I shove the plate away, my appetite suddenly gone.
“Are you seriously proud of that?” I snap, my voice tighter than I want it to be.
“Of course.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “It worked.”
I stare at him while rage burns up my spine like acid. “You faked an attack. You hurt yourself. Just to get my attention.”
He raises his glass in a slow, mocking toast. “To fate.”
And for a second—I almost laugh. Because what the actual hell is this? A man stabbing himself to win me over?The bar really is on the floor.
“You’re fucking insane.”
He shrugs like I just complimented his tie. “You’re just mad I fooled you.”
He leans in, propping his elbows on the table, tapping two fingers to his temple. “That was just the day I stopped pretending.”
And just like that—something breaks. All I can fucking think is that someone out there stabbed themselves just to get close to me. Beneath the jokes and the sarcasm I like to call a personality, I’m spiraling. Fast.
This man—this thing—just rewrote a memory I’ve been clinging to like a lifeline. The one night I thought that maybe I’d done something good. Something that made me feel like me. And now he’s sitting there, smiling like he wants a thank-you card for weaponizing it.
I reach for my wine—not to drink it. Just to keep my hands busy.
He stabbed himself. For attention. Jesus.
All I did was kneel down and offer a stranger help. But in Frank’s world that’s apparently as good as a fucking proposal.
I lean forward, matching his intensity, refusing to blink. “You were background noise on my trauma playlist, Frank. I would’ve helped anyone. That doesn’t make you special.”
Then his hand shoots out, sweeping his plate, his glass, the entire goddamn centerpiece off the table. The sound of porcelain shattering rings out like gunfire.
I don’t flinch, even though I want to. My body’s screaming, my skin’s crawling, and I feel like I might throw up right here in front of him. But I don’t give him that. Because if I do—he wins. And I’d rather choke on my fear than let him taste it.
He stands slowly, chest rising and falling. One hand goes to the back of his neck as he tugs on the collar of his shirt like it’s choking him and exhales.
He quickly composes himself. Then fixes me with a stare that should come with a body count.
“Get up,” he says.
